


sing me something i need

by WingedQuill



Series: geralt sad hours 2020 [3]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: (of a major dickhead don't worry), Angst with a Happy Ending, Body Horror, Captivity, Cursed Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, First Kiss, Geralt Whump Week (The Witcher), Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Whump, Getting Together, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, Love Confessions, M/M, Murder, Singing, Torture, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-03
Updated: 2020-07-03
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:02:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25057384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WingedQuill/pseuds/WingedQuill
Summary: When Geralt is a young witcher, he loves to sing. Love songs and ballads and ridiculous little ditties, it doesn't matter. He delights in using his voice, in making beautiful music. But then he's given the "gift" of jewels falling from his mouth whenever he speaks. A gift that kings would kill for. Would certainly hurt a lowly mutant for.He doesn't much like to sing, after that.(Written for Geralt Whump Week, Day 3: Cursed)
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: geralt sad hours 2020 [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1811878
Comments: 44
Kudos: 750
Collections: Best Geralt





	sing me something i need

**Author's Note:**

> CW: Mentioned torture, body horror in the form of seriously fucking up one's throat via speaking jewels, murder (of an abusive piece of shit)
> 
> Title taken from the Marianas Trench song "Sing, Sing." The Vibes Don't Match for this fic, but the song's a bop and these particular lyrics worked pretty well.

“You know what I’m curious about, jewel?”

The king is here. Geralt shrinks back into the corner of his cell, wrapping his arms around his knees, because things are never good when the king is here. The last time he was curious, it was to see what kind of gems fell from Geralt’s mouth when he screamed.

Obsidian. Pretty and shiny but ultimately not as valuable as gold and jewels. And thank the gods for that.

“I wonder,” the king murmurs, tapping his jewel-coated scepter against the ground, “if you can sing.”

His heart drops into his stomach.

He loves to sing. He always has. In a world of blood and monster guts, he thinks sometimes that his voice is the only beautiful thing about him. He adores the wild freedom of belting out his sorrows and joys to the world, the way that his brothers grin fondly at him as he starts up a jaunty drinking tune, the way he can weave a tragedy into something low and somber and perfect for murmuring around a campfire.

And he hoped—he hoped he could keep that love. That the king, with all his demands for his words and his laughter and his screams of agony, wouldn’t think to take this too.

But of course he did.

Geralt lifts his head and glares at him and wishes, not for the first time, that the fae who did this to him had given him the power to kill with a word. Or the power to fly, to soar far, far away from here.

“Don’t be shy.” The king steps forward into the cell, looming above Geralt. “I’m sure you sound lovely.”

“I—I can’t—”

His voice sounds like the rasp of sand sliding together. Two tiny pearls clatter to the floor, rolling across the rough stone. The king bats them aside with his scepter. He doesn’t have the patience for small offerings anymore.

“Sure you can,” he says. He lifts up the scepter and spins it around in his hand so that the bottom is facing Geralt. Its point gleams in the low light of the cell. Dull, but still sharp enough to pierce skin with the right amount of force. Geralt’s shoulder throbs at the reminder.

“Sing, my jewel.”

Geralt closes his eyes, takes a deep breath. Pretends that he’s not here, that he’s back within the walls of Kaer Morhen, safe and whole. That his throat isn’t as tattered as a white flag fluttering in the air over a battlefield. That his voice doesn’t betray him with every word he speaks.

And then he starts to sing. A lullaby he remembers Vesemir humming to him on the road to Kaer Morhen, when he was a child still afraid of the dark. A song that he’s come back to, time and time again, whenever he feels like that scared little kid.

His throat cracks and burns around the words, and he practically chokes halfway through the first line. Something knocks against the back of his teeth, and when he opens his mouth to sing the next word, a massive ruby falls from his lips.

It’s bigger than any jewel he’s ever spoken, and the king’s eyes light up as he waves at Geralt to keep singing. He bends down and plucks the ruby from the cold stone floor, even as a sapphire clatters down to take its place. He twirls the gem back and forth in his fingers, examining its facets, far more precise and numerous than any jeweler could hope to obtain. Even in the low light of the cell, it sparkles like it’s full of trapped fire.

It’s beautiful. Far more beautiful than his speech, his laughter, his screams.

_Oh gods, no. No no no._

“I think we’ve found your greatest talent, my jewel,” the king says, even as Geralt coughs up the next gem, his throat heaving with the effort. Emerald.

“Hurts—” he croaks. A sapphire the size of his thumbnail clicks against the ground. The king rolls his eyes.

“When have I ever cared about that?” he says, sounding almost bored. “We’ve done this dance before, treasure. The beauty outweighs the cost.”

_You don’t have to bear the cost._

He keeps those words to himself. His back still stings from the king’s last punishment for “mouthing off.”

The king presses the point of his scepter into Geralt’s shoulder.

“Keep singing.”

He keeps singing.

Gem after gem falls to the flagstones, and each one rubs his throat just a bit rawer, tears at his tongue and his lips and the roof of his mouth. He tries to sing softer, make the jewels a bit smaller, but the king digs the scepter in whenever the results are unsatisfactory.

The song drags on and on and on and not for the first time he wonders if he’ll ever burn through this curse, if the magic the fae had breathed into him would ever be depleted.

When it’s over, there are enough jewels on the ground to keep a man for several lifetimes. The king smiles as he gathers them in his hands, staring down at Geralt’s song like he’s picturing what he can make of it. A crown, perhaps. A throne. Another scepter, grander and richer and sharper.

“Again,” he says. “Higher this time. I want to see if range affects it.”

A sob tears itself from Geralt’s throat. He’s going to die like this. Suffocated by the thing he used to love, by the beauty of his own voice, his songs crushing him from the inside out.

“You can cry later, little songbird,” the king growls. “Don’t waste my time now.”

 _Songbird._ The same teasing nickname that Eskel had given him, all those years ago. It doesn’t belong in this bastard’s mouth, no more than Geralt’s words belong in his hands, but he can’t take any of it back.

He gathers himself. He’s still a witcher, despite everything this man has done to him. He’s still a wolf, still a protector, a warrior, a strong and shining thing. The king can’t take that away from him.

He starts to sing a love song, a fluttery high thing that he used to tease the older witchers with when they started talking about their beloveds. It’s sweeping and triumphant, playful and joyous, but in his shattered throat, it sounds more appropriate for a funeral.

The jewels that pour from his mouth glitter like broken glass, and the king makes an almost disappointed sound as he reaches down to examine them. Then he pauses. Picks up one of the gems with a look of awe. They’re not as big as the rubies and sapphires, but they’re brilliantly cut and polished, and as clear as the cleanest water.

He holds it up to one of the rubies with a shaking hand, and scratches it across the other jewel’s surface.

“Diamond,” he whispered. “The most perfect diamond I’ve ever seen.”

He looks at Geralt, and his face doesn’t look like a human’s anymore. It’s twisted and sharp and glinting with malice, and if Geralt had his swords, he’d raise the silver one against this man.

“Keep singing,” the man orders. “Don’t stop until your voice gives out.”

By the time Geralt is allowed to stop, the diamonds that fall from his mouth are painted red with blood.

***

The king calls him _songbird_ like he’s a harmless thing, a pretty, fragile creature trapped in a cage, nice to listen to but with nothing important to say.

“You really ought to look as valuable as you are,” he says one day, when Geralt is past the point of bleeding, emeralds spilled across the floor, his whole body twitching with pain. “Next time, treasure.” Another one of his favorites. _Songbird. Treasure. Jewel._ Pretty, desirable things. Nothing with agency.

A few days later, he has his servants bring in golden jewelry dripping with Geralt’s words. He gives himself the pleasure of draping said jewelry over Geralt, switching out the heavy iron manacles for diamond-studded ones, locking a collar dripping with rubies around Geralt’s throat. He holds up a dangling sapphire earring with a wicked grin, and Geralt doesn’t even have a chance to protest before he’s shoving it through his earlobe. He yelps from the sudden shock of it, and a chunk of obsidian falls from his mouth. The king kicks it aside.

“Don’t waste your voice,” he says sternly, picking up the second earring. “Don’t scream unless I want you to. You know the rules, songbird.”

Geralt squeezes his eyes shut as the king pokes a hole in his other earlobe, as he pushes more and more earrings into his skin and cartilage, following the delicate shells of his ears. _Anywhere but here,_ he thinks, as stubby fingers grab at his nose. _I’m anywhere but here._

There’s a burst of pain in his septum and his breath stutters in his throat. The king laughs softly, and moves away. Something cool and metallic touches his neck, winds up his arms, slithers smoothly against his ankles. Jewelry or chains or both, his doesn’t know and his doesn’t think it matters. His fingers are forced out of their fists and rings are slid over them. The king skips his left ring finger. No need to look like he’s anything so important as someone’s husband.

“Perfect,” the king says when he’s done. “So perfect. Let me show you just how much.”

Geralt opens his eyes and the servants hold up a mirror.

A terrified young man looks back at him. His eyes are wide, red with unshed tears. His face is thin from starvation, his arms and legs bare of muscle. His clothes are practically rags, and were clearly meant for a far larger frame, hanging off his shoulders and slipping down his waist. Their poor condition is a sharp contrast to the fine golden chains draped over his collarbone, the delicate piercings forced into his ears and nose, the jewel studded manacles locked to the heavy wall chains with gold padlocks. The collar pressed flush against his throat makes it clear how the king sees him. An exotic pet.

 _I’m a witcher,_ Geralt tells himself, as the king preens over his creation. _I’m a witcher. I’m not meant for this._

But as the king blusters away, leaving Geralt shivering in his cell, ears throbbing and collar exacerbating the pain in his throat, he finds it difficult to believe that. Difficult to believe that he’ll ever be able to get out of here.

That’s dangerous thinking. That’s deadly thinking, that’s the kind of thinking that will leave him trapped here for years, missing possible escape attempt after possible escape attempt.

_I’m a witcher. I’m a witcher. I’m made for something more._

***

He doesn’t know how long he’s trapped in that tower, singing and bleeding and singing and bleeding, over and over again. He does know there’s a point that he can’t sing the love song, no matter how hard the king presses the scepter into his shoulder. His voice just doesn’t go that high anymore.

It never will again.

Something’s broken in his throat.

The king glares down at him with pursed lips, and fear curls in Geralt’s chest. That’s the look of someone looking down at a disappointing, disposable thing. He doesn’t know what will happen if the king decides he isn’t worth the jewels he speaks. If the novelty of having a broken bird wears off.

***

He starts speaking when the king isn’t there. It’s difficult. Bloody. _Awful._ His words rasp together like broken bits of rock, and he can feel himself grinding his throat into useless dust. But this is his only chance, and if a broken voice is the price he must pay for freedom, he will gladly make that trade.

***

Whispering makes glass.

Whispering makes _glass._

The shard in his hand is as dull as if it had spent years in the sea, but he can work with this.

***

He toys with his whispers, changing the words, the tone, the pitch and volume and feeling. Slowly, he makes his words sharper and sharper, settling on a high, thin, _furious_ whisper. The inside of his mouth is bleeding badly by the time he gets a satisfactory result, a knife-sharp shard as long as his finger. He tucks it into his sleeve, positions himself as close to the door as possible, and waits.

***

It’s simple to pounce when the king steps into the room, simple to jam the glass into his carotid artery, simple to extract little golden key from his robes as he chokes to death on his own blood. There’s betrayal in his eyes, when he looks at Geralt, and Geralt laughs, thin and broken, sending amethyst scattering over the king’s twitching body. The isn’t betrayal. The king doesn’t _deserve_ betrayal. That would imply he was treating Geralt with kindness in the first place. It isn’t even revenge, not really. It’s self-defense, a desperate animal clawing its way to freedom.

Geralt never wanted to think of himself as an animal, as the wolf he used to wear around his neck, before he was brought here. He wanted to be a hero, a knight, something out of a fairytale. Something good and strong and pure.

But he isn’t that.

He’s a bird with sharp talons and tattered wings, and he won’t sing for this man ever again.

***

The guards don’t even try to stop him. He must look a fright, with bloody lips and bloodier hands, holding the kings sharp scepter like a sword, jaw set and eyes burning with furious desperation.

Or maybe they just can’t be bothered to capture him. It’s not like the king ever gave them any of his jewels. It’s not like they stand to gain anything by keeping him here.

Either way, he walks out of the castle that he’s spent the past—two years? He thinks?—of his life in on trembling legs, and he doesn’t look back.

***

Word will spread soon that the witcher with a gilded tongue is back in the wild, free for the taking. He needs to rip out the curse before that happens.

He makes his way to the nearest town, half delirious with hunger and exhaustion and the stabbing pain in his throat, scrounging for berries as he goes. They taste like summer on his torn tongue, sun-warmed and juicy, washing away the taste of glass and blood. A reminder that he’s _free,_ at least for now.

There’s a mage living in an elegant cottage at the edge of the town, and he stumbles through her door to a yelp of surprise. She puts her hand on his shoulder and leads him inside, her wide purple eyes taking in the thinness of his face, his bloody hands, the collar still glinting around his throat.

“The white-haired witcher,” she breathes in awe. “You’re the jewel-speaker.”

His legs tense, ready to run.

“I thought, when I heard of you, that it was a cruel curse,” she says, brow furrowing. “I can see I was right.”

“Was supposed to be a gift,” he rasps. Three tiny opals clatter to the ground. “Saved a fae.”

“The fae know shit all about gifts,” she says. She reaches up, hands glowing with magic, and pulls the collar off his throat. He swallows reflexively, relishing in the feeling of unconstrained skin.

“Thank you.” An emerald joins the opals.

“Don’t thank me yet. Let’s see if we can return this gift, hmm?”

She rests her hand against his throat and closes her eyes.

“It’s powerful,” she says, her forehead twitching. “I can’t—I can’t get rid of it completely.”

Geralt’s heart sinks. So this is his life forever then? Hiding out in the woods, desperately trying to avoid soldiers sent to hunt him down for his voice. Being forced to sing, and speak, and scream until his voice vanishes for good, until there’s nothing left the world can take from him.

“But,” she continues, pulling him out of his spiral of panic. “I should be able to contain it. It’s—from the shape of the curse, it seems to be most powerful when you sing, right?”

He nods.

“Okay. I should be able to lock it away so that it only triggers when you sing. Is that okay?”

It’s not.

It’s really, really not.

But it’s his only option.

“Yes,” he says. A ruby falls into his hand. It’s the last jewel he’ll ever speak.

***

He doesn’t like to use his gift.

It reminds him too much of a cold stone cell, of bloody diamonds and whips and learning to hone his words sharper, sharper, sharper, until he was carefully coughing up knives. It reminds him of pain and hunger and the cold feeling of golden jewelry against his throat, wrists, ears, as the king gilded him in his own stolen words.

And, listening to his rough, growly voice, unable to reach the same soaring heights that it used to—it reminds him that he’ll never be able to sing without pain again, that this thing he loved for so long has been taken from him, dashed to the ground like a cascade of shattered obsidian.

So he doesn’t sing often, even when he’s alone. He only does it when the pain in his chest gets too much to hold silently, or express with words alone. When that happens, he sings to Roach, low and soft, sad, ancient ballads that tug at his soul in the way only music can.

He takes the jewels and tucks them away in Roach’s saddlebag until they reach the next river, and then he throws his songs into the depths and feels a weight peel off his shoulders.

He doesn’t exist for anyone, anymore. He isn’t a source of riches. He’s just a witcher that likes—no, _needs—_ to sing sometimes.

***

Years pass. His brothers grieve with him, when he finally makes it back to Kaer Morhen. Vesemir gives him a hug that lasts at least an hour. They ask him if he wants to sing, but back off when he shakes his head frantically.

The keep feels a lot quieter, these days.

His life feels a lot quieter, these days.

***

Jaskier reminds him a bit too much of himself. Or himself as he used to be, anyway.

He’s bright and cheery and always, _always_ singing. There’s a song for every occasion, somber ones, delightful ones, inappropriately horny ones. Even idle moments, while he’s gathering berries for their dinner or arranging their campfire or polishing his lute, he’s coming up with little ditties to describe what he’s doing. It’s endearing. It’s sweet.

It’s painful.

He remembers when he did the same, humming to his swords as he cleaned them, idly improvising an ode to a dear carcass, coming up with tunes to remember the ingredients for each of his potions (he still sings those in his head, even now, when he’s been making them for decades. Old habits die hard).

There are long stretches, over the first few years of their friendship, where he aches to send Jaskier away. Get him out of his life. Get rid of the reminder of what it was like to sing, painless and clear-voiced and free.

But, for every way Jaskier is like his younger self, there are so many ways that he is different. His compositions are complex, way more complex than anything Geralt ever came up with, and his skill with a lute leaves Geralt breathless every time he hears it. More than that, he is brash and reckless and demanding, where Geralt has always made himself accept what he is given. Jaskier wants everything from the world, _expects_ everything from the world, greats humanity with a fierce grin and a set jaw and a stubbornness that Geralt finds shocking and awe-inspiring in turn.

After five years with Jaskier, five years of watching him swear at people that treat him and Geralt like they are lesser, five years of letting him talk Geralt into hot, sweet-smelling baths and comfortable sheets and warm clothes, five years of watching him dive headfirst into whatever life throws at him, Geralt thinks he might be in love with him.

Just a little bit.

Maybe a lot.

He really wishes he could still sing that love song.

***

Over the years, the _decades_ , since Geralt’s imprisonment, the story of the jewel-speaker has faded from fact to legend. The story has shifted too. The protagonist is no longer a witcher, beaten and broken and locked in a tower. Instead, she’s a sweet peasant girl, rewarded for her kindness with the ability to speak flowers and jewels alike, no pain or cruelty mentioned at all. She also has an evil sister who coughs up snails and frogs. Lambert likes to joke that that’s supposed to be him.

There are quite a few ballads about her, this pretty, happy version of Geralt. They’re jaunty, cheerful tunes, made for entertaining children mostly, and Geralt’s chest aches whenever he hears them. His story, twisted so badly that the jewel-speaker was _thankful_ for her gift, _helped_ by it. Never mind the fact that his throat still aches whenever he speaks too much, never mind the fact that he misses singing so _badly_ , never mind the fear that prickles up his spine whenever he sees a shop owner hawking golden jewelry.

The ballads are pretty popular, right up there with the tales of the sleeping princess, and the mermaid princess, and the princess who danced on glass shoes until midnight came. He wonders if any of these heroines are people like him, if any of their stories actually got happy endings. Regardless, they’re well-liked and well-received, so it’s no surprise that Geralt eventually hears Jaskier singing one.

They’ve stopped to camp for the night, and Jaskier is fiddling around with his lute while Geralt sorts out Roach. Jaskier starts plucking out a few opening chords that sends goosebumps prickling over Geralt’s neck, and Geralt fists his hand in Roach’s mane.

It doesn’t mean anything. It’s not personal. Jaskier doesn’t know what this song means to Geralt, because Geralt hasn’t fucking _told_ him, even after all these years. Because he’s a thrice-damned coward.

But it still feels like he’s been stabbed, like a piece of glass has gotten caught halfway up his throat and lodged itself there, slicing him to death from the inside.

Jaskier pauses, right after the first chorus. Geralt can feel his eyes burning into the back of his skull.

“Geralt?” he asks. “You okay?”

“Can you play something else?” Geralt says, and hates how weak he sounds.

“Okay,” Jaskier says. “Alright. No problem.”

He starts plucking out _Fishmonger’s Daughter_ and Geralt lets himself relax, lets himself laugh at Jaskier’s exaggerated bleating. It’s okay. He’s okay. He asked Jaskier to back off, and he did. Simple as that.

Not for the first time, he finds himself wondering what he did to deserve a friend like Jaskier.

***

The secret comes out eventually. Of course it does. Geralt is a dreadful liar. All it takes is a few songs to Roach, and a saddlebag full of rubies that have not yet been dumped in the river. All it takes is Jaskier coming across them at exactly the wrong time, chattering away about his latest exploits as he walks around Roach’s side with a small bundle of spare clothes.

“So, since Marx _obviously_ cheated at that competition, I couldn’t let his victory slide, and—”

As engrossed as Geralt is in Jaskier’s ridiculous story, it takes him too long to realize in which bag Jaskier is aiming to deposit his bundle, too long to protest.

“Wait—”

“—so I snuck a live chicken into….his….”

Jaskier trails off, staring into the saddlebag with a dropped jaw.

“Um. Geralt?”

Geralt closes his eyes.

“What are you doing with a royal treasury’s worth of rubies?”

He considers lying. Considers saying it was a contract payment from a very grateful, very rich king. Jaskier’s trade is spreading stories after all, and if this particular one gets around, Geralt’s life will be ruined. Forever. He’ll spend the rest of his days in chains, singing around a shattered throat.

But this is Jaskier. And Geralt knows that, if there’s one thing Jaskier values more than his fame and fortune, it’s his friendships. His friendship with Geralt especially, hard-won and strong as it is. There aren’t many people Geralt could trust with his life. With his _freedom._ Vesemir, Eskel, Lambert. Yennefer, the one to set him free of this thing in the first place.

And Jaskier.

“I’m throwing them in the nearest river,” he says, truthfully, taking Jaskier’s clothes to put in a different saddlebag.

Jaskier blinks rapidly.

_“Why?”_

Geralt sighs, and walks back over to his nearly-packed-up campsite. He was just planning on heading out when Jaskier found him.

“Sit down,” he says, settling himself onto a log. Jaskier follows, steps hesitant. “It’s gonna be a long story.”

***

It feels like setting some part of himself free. Some part of himself he never realized was still caged.

***

When the story is over, when Geralt has given up the gift that became a curse, the tower that became a prison, the king that became a corpse, they’re both crying. Sobs hitch from Jaskier’s chest as he reaches for Geralt, his hands trembling.

 _“Fuck,”_ he gasps as he tugs Geralt into a hug. “Just… _fuck,_ Geralt, people are the fucking worst.”

“I know,” Geralt laughs weakly.

“I can’t even imagine how hard it was to tell me about that,” Jaskier says. Geralt blinks.

“Wasn’t hard,” he mumbles against Jaskier’s doublet. “I trust you.”

Jaskier tenses in his grip. Geralt feels tears soaking through the fabric of his shirt. He holds Jaskier tighter, closer, letting him shudder and shake against him. Despite himself, a warmth whispers through his chest, a feeling of safety, friendship, love. Jaskier cares about him enough to weep for his long-ago pain.

“I trust you,” he repeats. “There’s no one else I’d rather share this with.”

“Gods,” Jaskier says. “Gods. Thank you, then. Just…thank you.”

Geralt isn’t quite sure what he’s being thanked for.

“You’re welcome,” he says anyway. They cling to each other until Jaskier’s sobs quiet, and then Jaskier pulls back with a watery grin.

“Well,” he says. “There’s monsters to fight and rubies to send to their watery grave. Shall we?”

He doesn’t ask to keep the gems. He doesn’t point out that Geralt could give up the path forever if he wanted, that he’d never need to go hungry again. He doesn’t try to insist that Geralt’s curse is a gift.

The warmth doubles in Geralt’s chest.

“Yeah,” he says with a grin. “We shall.”

***

Two weeks later, they’re sitting around yet another campfire, under yet another grove of trees. Geralt loves nights like this, under the stars, far away from the noise and smell of civilization. Just the two of them.

Jaskier is plucking idly at his lute, but he isn’t singing. His eyes are half-lidded, sleepy. Content.

Geralt thinks of the love song, thinks of how impossibly high it is. Mentally shifts it lower. Lower. Down an octave. He opens his mouth.

For the first time in seventy years, he sings in front of another person.

Jaskier’s fingers stutter on the lute, but he quickly picks his tune back up again, shifting the chords to match Geralt’s song. His eyes are no longer drooping, but wide open, staring at Geralt with unabashed wonder.

At _Geralt._ Not at the gems collecting at his feet. He’s watching _Geralt._ Listening to Geralt’s voice, cracked and raw as it is. A smile spreads across his face, soft and awed, like he’s watching a particularly beautiful sunset.

The last note of the song leaves Geralt’s lips along with a ruby, and Jaskier trails his fingers over the last chord, plucking out the notes one by one, leaving them to shiver in the air. He sets the lute aside and gets to his feet.

“Your voice is beautiful,” he says. “So fucking _gorgeous_ Geralt, I—that was wonderful.”

“It’s not,” Geralt mutters. “It’s all rough and broken and—”

“Warm,” Jaskier says, stepping forward. He kicks aside a sapphire and jumps, looking down in surprise.

“Huh. Forgot that was there.”

A laugh curls in Geralt’s throat. Only Jaskier would forget a priceless treasure beneath his feet to compliment Geralt’s ruined voice.

“Don’t laugh!” Jaskier says, his indignation betrayed by his grin. “It’s easy to forget silly things like that when listening to you sing, it’s all—it’s warm and crackly and _rich_ , like a campfire. Like…like home. It’s _beautiful.”_

He hesitates, eyes darting back and forth over Geralt’s face.

 _“You’re_ beautiful,” he says at last.

Hope whispers through Geralt’s heart. Does he mean….does he want….?

“I love you,” Geralt says, before he can lose his nerve. Jaskier’s breath hitches in his throat.

“I love you too,” he says, voice cracking almost as badly as Geralt’s. “Gods above, I’ve loved you for years.”

He puts his hand on Geralt’s cheek.

“Can I—”

“Yeah,” Geralt says, before he can even finish the question.

And then Jaskier’s lips are on his, gentle, slow, savoring him. Savoring Geralt as a person. Not as a treasure, a jewel, a thing to own.

Geralt closes his eyes and kisses him back.

His voice will never work quite right. There will always be bad days, days that his throat stings and burns and nothing he does can stop it. He’ll never be able to sing like he could before, high and clear and unimpeded.

But Jaskier loves him anyway.

Jaskier grabs a handful of Geralt’s shirt and pulls him backward, towards Jaskier’s bedroll. Geralt goes with him gladly.

They leave the jewels in the dirt.


End file.
